


Give Me That Deathless Death

by deanlovescastielswormstache



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlovescastielswormstache/pseuds/deanlovescastielswormstache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the zombie apocalypse and Grantaire still is nowhere closer to knowing whether or not Enjolras survived. Rumors of a new government in Paris spark his curiosity and what he finds there leaves him floored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me That Deathless Death

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt: being reunited after surviving the zombie apocalypse unknowing if the other was alive or dead AU for E/R. Title from Hozier's Take Me To Church, which I found particularly fitting.

As a teenager, Grantaire had been obsessed with zombies, a cruel irony that he hadn't appreciated in a while. The Walking Dead was his favorite show and as an adult he had still occasionally dabbled in the odd zombie game, mostly due to a lingering nostalgia and the desire to indulge that little boy side of him that liked to shoot things. Occasionally Enjolras would be his partner in kicking some serious zombie ass, when he wasn’t busy finishing a paper or fighting for justice for all, which was to be expected. What Grantaire had never expected was for an _actual_ zombie apocalypse to happen. What he had expected even less was that Enjolras wouldn’t be there beside him to stand up for him as he had done since elementary school, or to blow some heads off when he was in deep shit, just like those late nights in Grantaire’s apartment all those years ago.

 

It had been five years since the first rabid zombie had shown up. Things had gone to shit rapidly after that. Between the government inaction due to debate over the problem and entire cities of terrified people being slaughtered, it hadn’t taken long for the chaos to descend completely on the world and now, five long years later, it was over. There was no government, no infrastructure; the world was crumbing around the few survivors left. The zombies had been eradicated completely, and those that were still alive were most definitely not the kind of people that earned your vote.

 

Grantaire had always thought that humanity was only a few steps away from barbarity. He hated being proved right. The things he had seen people do to each other in the name of “survival” were too gruesome to mention. Grantaire had always thought that Darwin was on to something with his “survival of the fittest” theory, but Grantaire had only ever seen the cruel and immoral survive this hellish world, meaning that perhaps Darwin's theory wasn't quite accurate. Which supported his theory that Enjolras and his friends were dead. They would be unable to commit the atrocities needed to stay alive. Part of him was relieved. The thought that they would be forced to watch their people turn against each other would be absolutely crushing to them.

 

Grantaire was with Jehan. They had been together in their apartment on the day that Paris had been overrun by the undead and luckily Jehan had some swords from his martial arts class he used to teach and Grantaire had his rapier, which while ineffective, was able to at least keep them at a distance. After the attack, Grantaire had snuck into Paris to visit Enjolras’ apartment, unbeknownst to Jehan. Grantaire found only an eerily hollow apartment that had miraculously made it through unscathed. Grantaire waited all night for a sign, unable to let the tears spill or keep his hands from trembling. With morning light, and having neglected to sleep, Grantaire left the apartment with a bag of food and a picture of the amis in his hand. He left a large red R painted on the door so that if Enjolras ever came back, he would know that Grantaire had been alive at some point and that he had come back for Enjolras. He knew it was most likely pointless, but he still felt like he was abandoning Enjolras, the feeling of guilt gnawing at Grantaire's gut, keeping him up at night for years as he mentally stalked through his memories of Enjolras.

 

After the apartment discovery, Grantaire had kept the photo in his breast pocket, close to his heart. The edges were frayed and ragged, but age and apocalypse could not dim the brightness of Enjolras’ smile, or the ache in his chest. Jehan was fierce, and Grantaire thinks that without him, he would have probably given up hope a long time ago, and just died. Somehow Jehan managed to find food and Grantaire managed to do his part in fending off zombies, and Grantaire didn’t have the heart in him to die and leave Jehan by himself. So he lived, despite the knowledge that with every day that passed, it was brought him farther and farther from Enjolras. They moved through the countryside, covering leagues and getting nowhere except closer to their demise.

 

Five years had passed. Three thousand two-hundred eighty-six days. Eighty-two thousand one hundred fifty hours. And each of them felt like agony. Every morning Grantaire would get up, sure that Enjolras must be dead, and every night he stayed awake with a blossom of torturous hope in his heart. It didn’t help that Jehan spoke in his sleep, crying out for their friends. Grantaire never mentioned it, though his heart leaped every time he heard Enjolras’ name pass through Jehan’s lips, reaffirming that Enjolras was indeed real, that Grantaire wasn’t the only one who thought of him.

 

The group of people that had announced the end of the apocalypse had mentioned that there was a new leadership in charge, and Grantaire had a funny feeling in his chest that he quickly told himself was suspicion. He and Jehan decided to head to Paris for the next “meeting,” cautiously armed in case of a trap, and highly skeptical of any sort of group that would actually govern in a way that would benefit anyone but themselves. Grantaire spent the next week numb, trying to believe that the apocalypse might be over, that he might be able to sleep a whole night instead of taking shifts, that he could wash himself every day, that he could get his hands on better alcohol. Paris loomed closer and closer on the horizon, and Grantaire became more and more anxious.

 

The night before the meeting they stayed in an abandoned suburban building that smelled of mold and piss. Needless to say, neither of them actually slept so much as stared at the ceiling, counting each other’s breaths. Their hands reached between them and clasped each other desperately, trying not to hope, and waiting for Dawn’s fingers to beckon them back to Paris. In the end, Jehan wordlessly pulled him up and they set off before the sun peeked up from the horizon, but Grantaire’s legs were jittery and he had to move, he had to do something because looking at the derelict remains of Paris gave him stomach pangs that made him reminded him of the last time he had thrown up, the first night of the apocalypse, when he had seen the blood on his hands, tasted the iron tang in his mouth.

 

The appointed square was full of disheveled survivors with hollow cheeks and emptier eyes. All appearances seemed normal, but that didn’t mean that a rotter wouldn’t show up at any moment to wreak havoc on this easy target. Grantaire slipped uneasily into one of the buildings on the square, Jehan close behind. “Do you think this is it?” Jehan carefully kept his eyes to the ground, fiddling with his sword.

 

“I don’t know,” Grantaire replied, his throat dry. Everything was dry. What he wouldn’t give for some chap stick right now. He shifted, leaning against the wall, and peering around it in order to see what was happening in the square. That was when he saw it. Combeferre and Courfeyrac _standing on the stage_. Grantaire pinched himself. It couldn’t be true, they _couldn’t_ have survived for five years without books and hair product. “Jehan,” he choked.

 

Jehan looked at him oddly, before sticking his head out. His eyes rounded, and his sword clattered to the cement floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “No,” he whispered, a breath of reverent air that could have been a prayer if Jehan still believed in a loving God after this entire fiasco. And with that affirmation, that he was in fact, not hallucinating, Grantaire was off. He left his pack and his sword, left only with the dagger in his boot and as well as the one strapped to his thigh. He pushed through the crowd, pure desperation pulling him through to the front, and with one leap he was on the stage. He heard the crowd murmuring in alarm behind him, but he had never cared less, grabbing Combeferre’s collar and pulling him close.

 

“Where is he? Where is Enjolras? You _must_ know.” Grantaire’s voice was breaking, and he was desperate, and he wished that he could take the moment to enjoy being in the presence of Combeferre and Courfeyrac again, but he was consumed with a panic, with the thought that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had maybe gotten more time with him, probably had knowledge as to his whereabouts, his fate. And Grantaire couldn’t bear to know any of that information, because he had been fine, really, not knowing whether or not Enjolras still moved and laughed and loved. But he couldn’t avoid it now, he felt the need in his gut to hear that Enjolras was dead and it would all be over, and Grantaire could leave Jehan with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, go somewhere nice and quiet and end his own life without the guilt of leaving Jehan alone in this wasted world.

 

“Grantaire?” The voice was unforgettable. It had haunted Grantaire since the first time it crossed his hearing, and Grantaire froze, feeling a wetness on his cheeks and an ice-cold hand gripping his stomach. “Grantaire, is that you?” The voice came again, and there was no doubt this time in Grantaire’s spine that he had actually heard Enjolras say his name, something that Grantaire had assumed he had lost forever. He turned slowly, barely glimpsing a glint of golden curls and a red coat before he was enveloped in Enjolras arms. Grantaire was relatively certain that he hadn’t even realized dying and was now in Heaven, which was a surprising turn of events after all of the blood on his hands.

 

But then he breathed in and smelled _Enjolras_. The scent of sandalwood and pine that tugged at Grantaire’s gut, and before he knew it, they were kneeling on the ground, clasping each other tightly, unable to speak. Grantaire felt Enjolras shaking into him and a growing dampness on his shoulder that brought Grantaire back to reality, and he knew that Enjolras could probably hear his sobs. Enjolras pulled back, cupping Grantaire’s face in his hand, his other falling to the small of his back, and Grantaire could only stare at this new Enjolras, one who had lived without Grantaire for five years and had killed zombies. He had also grown his hair out, tying it in a braid. That was unexpected, but before Grantaire could comment on that, Enjolras lips captured his in a desperate collision of teeth. It was fierce and hot, conveying all the lonely nights, the panicked hours of searching for each other, the heartbreak at the thought of loss, the relief of finding each other alive.

 

Grantaire pulled back, chest heaving. “How long have you wanted to do that?” he asked, noting the crow’s feet at the corner of Enjolras’ eyes.

 

“Since before the world ended.” Enjolras said, his forehead leaning in to rest against his. “I had been planning to ask you out, but then things got kind of busy for a few years. Zombies were up to some serious cock blocking.”

 

Grantaire laughed. “You don’t even believe that’s a real thing.”

 

Enjolras smiled softly, brushing Grantaire’s hair from his face and Grantaire knew that if he weren’t already kneeling, he probably would have fallen over. It was hard enough as is with Enjolras’ arms supporting him. “I love you, Grantaire. I thought I had lost you. I was destroyed. Just ask Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

 

Grantaire flicked his eyes up to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had moved close to each other, hand around each other’s waists, Courfeyrac resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. Jehan was clutching Courfeyrac’s hand and nodded reassuringly to Grantaire. In that moment he knew that everything would be okay. “Enjolras, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t in love with you. And I’d go through ten more zombie apocalypses if it meant that we’d be together in the end.”

 

Enjolras grinned, a blinding smile that far surpassed the one that Enjolras displayed in the picture tucked away in Grantaire’s pocket. He leaned forward to kiss Grantaire again, and this time, Grantaire met him halfway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Come say hi on [tumblr](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) or on my [Les Mis blog](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


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